


A Bit of Thunder

by Kernezelda, luninosity



Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Caretaking, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kernezelda/pseuds/Kernezelda, https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which James has had a long day, and Michael takes very good care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of Toto's "Could This Be Love," because Michael Fassbender.
> 
> The working-draft summary for this said "Sex. Because of Tumblr." We were tempted to leave it like that, but refrained.

It was, in part, a question of size. That wasn't all of it, between them; that wasn't even most of it, not really. But it was present. And it made him shiver. Every time.

James—who'd never thought of himself as precisely _small_ , he had good shoulders and was only short in cinema terms and wasn’t exactly unassuming or shy, at least not on the surface—had discovered, over weeks and months, that he liked the feeling of being tucked under Michael’s arm, snug against Michael’s long torso. He appreciated the way they tended to fall into step even over short distances, legs nearly the same length but height difference there nonetheless when he looked up to find that wide Fassbender smile right in his eyeline—said smile getting a bit bigger because Michael knew he was looking and knew how much he enjoyed the sensation when one of those large hands slid to the back of his neck and curled possessively round.

He did love that feeling, shamelessly so. And, as they finished the interview, as Michael’s fingers tightened just enough at the nape of his neck, as the journalist took his recorder and his notes and walked out of the room, as the wearyingly drawn-out day faded at last toward its inevitable end, well…

James was entirely eager to be shameless.

 

James’ shamelessness had inspired Michael to an array of obscene thoughts and intentions since he’d first become aware of the dearth of fear in those bright eyes; of the willingness to try anything once, maybe twice if the experiment’s results required verification. Kissing in various kitchens had led to the defiling of various utensils, root vegetables and exotic cooking oils; more recently, making out in the mudroom of James’ rented cottage for his new film had led to the discovery that washing machines whose controls featured button activation could prove wonderfully rhythmic, if one was in very much of a hurry to lay James across the nearest horizontal surface and —

Michael shook his head, blood warming his cheeks, and elsewhere, too. He didn’t dare look at James under his shoulder, pressed wearily to his side, not if he didn’t want to see an embarrassing photo of himself splashed across every social media site. Or to be asked awkward questions in interviews…again. Instead, he let his fingertips travel from the nape of James’ bowed neck, whispering over the soft fabric of James’ shirt, wrapping around the muscle of the shoulder beneath, smooth and strong and dotted all about with new cinnamon-cream freckles. He thought he’d never grow tired of trying to count them, souvenirs of James’ scene a week past, a sunny blue-skied beach where he’d had to run in and out of the surf all day long. Pale Scottish skin did not take well to Miami sun; but the burn and blisters had healed, and the freckles had sprung up like tiny autumn leaves falling to earth.

Today, the shoot had run so long – since well before dawn - that the cast and the majority of the crew had gone with the setting sun, save James, whose day had been split by the hastily arranged interview with Michael for their just completed shared film, currently in post-production. They’d made the most of the interlude before James returned to the set, but by the time Michael came to pick him up at the end, James had barely had the energy to smile and nod his thanks when handed his favorite spiced latte. At long last, they wound through the tangle of trailers and service vehicles, reaching Michael’s bike without encountering anyone save site security. There were no paparazzi, either; so when they mounted the bike, no one saw James reach around to cup Michael’s half-hard cock, no one saw Michael gasp and stall the bike - the rich pungency of petrol rising - and no one saw James nibble on Michael’s earlobe, lips curving around a tired, but fond snicker.

 

James _was_ shameless, and he knew it; knew Michael, until James’ presence in his life, had never been much for public displays of affection, at least nothing more overt than a hug or a brief hand-squeeze at premieres. James, though, adored physical contact, always had—most likely due to unresolved childhood-induced fear of abandonment, he’d flippantly self-analyzed once, and then resolved to utterly not care—and craved the weight of Michael’s hand on his back at Comic-Con panels, the nudge of Michael’s long legs sprawling into his space and bumping his knees. Needed to have his own hands—and lips, and other body parts if possible—underscoring the connection between them as much as he conceivably could.

So if he enjoyed making Michael gasp and forget words and trip over his own bike, if he took advantage of sliding into place behind that greyhound leanness to lean in a bit too close and push his hips forward and slide a hand along Michael’s thigh, well. It was comfort, that contact. Among other, less innocent emotions, of course.

Michael, these days, didn’t seem to mind, or at least seemed to mind less, than he once had. Offered more casual caresses, a hand on his waist, a foot idly resting atop his underneath a covered table. James’d asked, a few weeks previously; Michael’d looked at him, eyebrows going up, and said, “You like to be touched.”

He pressed his lips to the spot between Michael’s shoulderblades, swiftly, inhaling: the warm dark richness of a leather jacket on a water-suffused day, the crisp woodsy scent of Michael’s soap lingering from the shower that morning, the hint of nicotine and also sugar because Michael’d demanded that room service bring them mid-interview lemon biscuits, ostensibly on James’ behalf, and then had eaten three.

"James," Michael said, amused and fond and impatient, "helmet," and what that meant was _I’m not going anywhere without you_ , and James nodded and yanked his on while Michael wrestled the bike into submission. He put his arms back around that slim waist and let Michael whisk them back to the cottage in the low, sprawling hills just past the outskirts of the city, anticipating the restful darkness and privacy of the semi-rural countryside after their flight through the dazzling neon and halogen lights of the city streets, trading the smell of exhaust and concrete for grass and clean air and the distant lowing of cattle. He leaned in close, peeking over Michael’s shoulder, watching those large hands, so equally skilled at controlling a purring bike or pushing a heavy-engined car for each available bit of speed - or wringing every last drop of pleasure out of James’ trembling body.

He thought, again, _submission_ ; and smiled, behind the helmet.

 

Michael’s whole body seemed to warm as James gripped him tightly, arms wrapped around his waist like a loving octopus. The weight of him was near-negligible on the sturdy bike; the weight of his trust, his love, the most steadying of anchors: James trusted Michael to keep him safe as they sped over drizzle-wet pavement; he trusted Michael with himself in so many other ways that Michael had dreamed of, but never thought would come true.

The bright lights of Miami faded behind them, the darkness of the highway unfolding before them, with the occasional mile marker and green directional flashing by in the sweep of the headlight. There wasn’t much traffic heading out, and the trip wasn’t long: fifteen minutes or so until they crested the hill where a cutout led to James’ cul-de-sac. Gravel spat out from under Michael’s tires as they turned in and onto a hard clay surface, moist on top with the evening dew. James squawked into Michael’s ear when his bike slid - just a bit, and a hard punch at the ground with his boot righted them.

Michael felt cool wind on his teeth, realized he was grinning, and James must be practicing his mind-reading again, because he socked Michael on a bicep, Scottish accent hitting the ‘k’ hard when he cursed. Fierce as he was, he was adorable; and Michael deliberately rotated the bike around the front wheel to hear him do it again. Divots of clay and mud spattered the brick path to the cottage porch, and James’ helmet dug into Michael’s back, muffling his fervent protest. Grinning still, Michael switched off and let the revving echoes dissipate.

James sighed, slapped Michael’s stomach lightly and climbed off, one long leg swinging up and over – tempting Michael for his own unexpected grab – but he relented as James stood there unhooking his helmet, shoulders slumping. In the pale gleam of the porch light, he appeared spectral, fragile. Michael unsnapped his own helmet, took James’ and stowed them both before wheeling the bike over and chaining it to a porch strut.

He held out his hand and James took it. Their fingers threaded together warmly while James fumbled with the key, pushed open the white wooden door and led the way inside. They’d been sharing the cottage since Michael flew in two weeks before; its isolation was as much protection against intrusive visitors as the fact that Michael’s presence remained unnoticed – at least until today. He had no official business in Miami, and it was sheer chance that he’d been visiting the set when James’ director remembered the interview; which wouldn’t have been a strain had it not been for the various mishaps of the morning shooting, requiring James to repeat scenes multiple times and in multiple interpretations.

He’d been a bit tired, but professional and enthused during the interview; and now, hours later, well into the night and expecting another early morning, he looked small and worn. Michael wanted nothing more than to wrap him in blankets and carry him to bed, coil around him and let him rest as long as he needed, the scenes tomorrow be damned.

James would never forgive himself for screwing up the schedule, forcing others to inconvenience themselves for him. Not that he’d blame Michael, either. But that was James, endlessly forgiving, giving to a fault.

And, at this stage of exhaustion, he’d never sleep on his own.

“Tea?”

Michael glanced up, saw that while he’d been pondering, James had gone pottering among the zillion packets of tea in the cupboard and set up the kettle – his own, they weren’t that common in the American South, and James claimed his had been a vital support in his career for the past ten years. Flames flickered blue under the burnished, slightly battered copper.

“Chamomile,” James continued. His eyes dipped down, and the red lushness of his mouth was bisected by the tip of his tongue rolling along the underside of his upper lip. The corner of his mouth quirked up when Michael’s tented jeans twitched.

“If you say anything about hard riding,” Michael growled, heat rising in his cheeks.

“I’m sure I would never--”

Michael straightened up to his full height, stalked a step, two, closer. James’ eyes widened and his shoulders lifted, a bit of color returning to wan cheeks.

“The world must be saved from your bad puns,” Michael said gravely, and was rewarded by James’ grin, a sunburst of happiness brightening his whole face.

“I have no idea what you mean by that,” James said, pursing his lips, lifting his chin – pulling away his light scarf to reveal the slender lines of his throat, the bobbing vulnerability of his Adam’s apple. “It was a _long, hard_ day… I’m sure I’m too tired to attempt world domination right now.” He swept long lashes down, hiding the glint of blue eyes, darkening. “Though we could start--” His head tilting, James flicked a heated glance toward Michael’s groin – and grinned and winked the most wicked wink – “--small.”

Michael gaped, growled and leapt.

James howled with laughter and made a run for it.

Michael cursed, skidded to a stop long enough to flick off the stove in passing.

He caught James at the bedroom door, lifted him off his feet and felt his heart swell when slim, strong arms wrapped around his neck to drag his head down to warm lips, spice-and-coffee-and-James-flavored, drugging and hot and perfect—

And squeaking with indignation when Michael dropped James on the bed, then dropped himself down over him, caging him in with arms and legs, lowering himself until they were chest to chest, eyes meeting with gleeful eagerness while Michael wrapped his hands around James’ wrists, long fingers enfolding soft skin and hair and flexing tendons while James rubbed his legs along the inside of Michael’s, squirming only hard enough to let Michael feel it. Flame-blue eyes glowed with James’ growing excitement, his fingers twisting, barely reaching the back of Michael’s hands, stroking.

“This is how you’ll save the world?” James gasped between licks into Michael’s mouth, the tip of his tongue skating along the sharp points of canines, the sensitive spot behind the upper incisors. Michael groaned and lowered his hips, rubbed his groin against James’ – perfectly matched, height difference or not, perfect below the waist and above, for the very best fit to where he belonged, under Michael’s arm and at his side, always always.

“Who says I’m saving the world?” he managed, wishing he had the ability of his last character, to undo the zips of their jeans with a thought. Michael breathed hard against James’ cheek, stymied by unwillingness to release James’ wrists even to undress him, strip him bare and _have_ him.

He wanted all of James, pale skin and creamy freckles and muscular thighs wrapping hard around Michael’s waist, ankles locked behind and head flung back, eyes closed and mouth open on cries of ecstasy. Yearning glances and playful punches, snuggling while script-reading and endless mugs of a thousand teas and coffees. He _wanted_. Michael took James’ lower lip between his teeth and bit – gently, gently – until James moaned beneath him, pelvis bucking up in tandem with the close press of his day-stubbled chin into Michael’s jaw.

Michael’s breath rasped as he released James, his own groan vibrating in his chest. Dragging his mind from memories of the past and visions of the future, Michael transferred his hold of James’ wrists from two hands to one, ignoring the perfunctory tug as James tested his grip, eyes dark as pitch in the bedroom’s dim light. Never looking away from the heated, watchful gaze, Michael fumbled around between them until both sets of jeans were unfastened. James promptly began wriggling, exaggerating every twist of his hips while heeling off his shoes and socks, letting them thump to the floor. He smirked at Michael’s expression, ground against him without the slightest hint of shame while using his bared feet to push and pull down trousers and underwear.

Those clever toes attacked Michael’s jeans next, dragging them inch by laborious inch. Slowly, so slowly it had to be deliberate - the sly tip of James’ tongue at the corner of his kiss-swollen mouth proved it – James raked his feet with their burden of fabric down the length of Michael’s legs. Michael finally remembered to tear off his own footwear when it all bunched at his ankles – and heard James giggling at his predicament, the sound of it as warm and sweet as hot chocolate.

Michael’s grin widened with delight. He loved the easiness between them, but right now, the speeding pulse in James’s confined wrists, the flickering glimpse of James’ tongue licking moist lips, the heat and weight of James’s groin trapped beneath his own – they all called forth a different response. Michael locked his gaze on James’ face, lifted each knee in turn and set them between James’ thighs, only inches away from the hardened cock half-hidden by the drape of James’ button-down.

“Spread for me,” Michael ordered, low and deep in his throat. James’ eyes slammed shut, brows drawing together while he drew in a quick, open-mouthed breath. His chest heaved with relief, as if he’d been waiting hours, days for the command.

“Whatever you want,” he finally breathed, looking at Michael at last, thighs rising to caress the outer sides of Michael’s, moving outward until he lay exposed and open to Michael’s avid gaze, the hem of his shirt shifting with the motion until his cock slid fully into view between the sides, dark with blood, rampant and eager where it quivered and twitched and left tiny dabs of pre-come to mar the white cotton.

“I’ll try world conquest tomorrow,” James said, smiling a bit, eyes alight with fire, with love that speared Michael through and through. Blunt fingers bent down to brush lightly at what skin they could reach, just the tips of trimmed nails against the sensitized back of Michael’s hand, the very beginning of his wrist. “You’ll have to settle for conquering me tonight.”

 

"I can live with that," Michael murmured, and his voice sent a thrill through James the way it always did, without fail: low and sensual, that unmistakable faded Celtic-German lilt, promisingly close to a growl when Michael looked at him. And Michael was looking now, steady and unwavering. James wanted to bask in the light of that devotion forever; wanted to blush and duck his head, inexplicably shy in the intensity of it, unsure how to answer all that passionate brightness with only his own imperfect self. Wanted to close his eyes and moan and beg for Michael to fuck him, to claim him, hard and repeatedly, over and over, until the only thought he had left was: yours, yes, forever, as Michael took him.

Whatever you want, he’d said. He’d meant it. He always did. Even more so now: now, when Michael’d turned up at his door unannounced and unexpected, no reason to be here in Miami or Florida or even the United States, no reason other than James himself, and Michael’s whisper, trailing kisses over his stomach that first night, of, “I couldn’t stay away.”

Michael shifted the hand around his wrists. Rubbed a long thumb over the pulse-points in his veins. Pressed down, not hard, but enough to underscore the words. “I want you like this. Legs open for me, not tied down, though, just you and me, and you all displayed for me because you want to be, because you want this, to be…conquered, tonight…”

"If you get on with the conquering sometime fuckin’ soon," James said, poking the tiger on purpose, and Michael let out an actual growl this time and the other hand landed on James’ throat, not cutting off his air, only curling over vulnerable flesh, thumb under his jaw and just the right side of uncomfortable. A reminder, then. And he reveled in it.

"You do like me touching you," Michael observed. "No. Eyes open. Look at me."

He took a deep breath, and did.

The second their eyes met, he felt it: like falling into the waves, like the sweet rush of crystal-blue water closing over his head, like being submerged, and knowing that he wouldn’t drown, not with Michael there.

He felt his hands relax—felt himself relax, everywhere, completely—in Michael’s grip.

Michael breathed in, just once. James wondered distantly what he was seeing, with that awed expression; then he gave up wondering, because Michael was kissing him, fierce tender quick nips at his mouth, his earlobe, the line of his throat, when that large hand tipped his head to the left, baring soft skin all down the right.

"Like this," Michael breathed again, tilting their hips together, the iron heat of his cock sliding torturously along James’ own, making him whimper. "Like this, you with your shirt still on, you’re going to ruin that shirt for me, James, I want you to come all over it, it and yourself, for me…"

 

James fell into the grip of Michael’s voice as if hypnotized, every inch of him relaxing and yielding to Michael’s hand, butter and silk and melting wax, waiting for Michael to mold and shape. The thought of that trust, the responsibility of it, of being everything for James because James wanted _him_ , had repeatedly _chosen_ to share this part of himself with Michael – it was heady, it was dizzying, it was a heavy cloak that spread warm and worrisome and ultimately welcome over his shoulders. He _would_ give James what he needed, he would _be_ what James needed, not because Michael was perfect – never had been, never would be, no matter what James claimed – but because he _wanted_ to be everything for James, just as James had become everything for him.

James needed to go down fast and hard, too few hours remaining of the night as it was. For all James’ teasing, there were shadows under his over-bright eyes that Michael vowed to erase. Hard wasn’t going to be a problem; James’ erection was nearly burrowing into his stomach, wet at the tip, shaft swollen and hot where it rubbed eagerly against Michael’s. And fast wouldn’t be a problem, either, ready as they both were.

“Eyes open,” Michael reminded, his own pulse pounding from the intensity of James’ oceanic gaze. He shuffled upright on his knees, straddling James, wanting to see all of him like this, flushed and sweating, pliant and exposed – and _his_. Dragging James’ hands down, Michael folded them around their cocks, the broad fingers warm and firm and barely able to enclose both at once, but, oh, that two-handed grip felt _wonderful_. Michael nearly keened with sensation, and wrapping his hands around James’, guided him into a heavy rhythm, dragging and squeezing hard, dripping pre-come easing the grip of dry hands on dry flesh. It was not quite enough to hurt, but came close; Michael kept a close eye on James, watching for the slightest twitch, the sign that said welcome roughness had edged over into pain – that wasn’t what either of them needed tonight.

James’ breathing hitched into sobs. His eyelashes fluttered, and his hips bucked up hard. “Oh,” he gasped, and his hands tightened enough around their shafts for Michael to wince. The wide crystalline rims of James’ irises glimmered, the expanded pupils absorbing the room’s dim light. Those eyes found Michael; they drank in his every blink, every breath. James’ hands loosened until only Michael’s around them kept them moving, easing the momentary discomfort.

But what had been discomfort for Michael had been the last push James needed. He gasped, a line creasing between his eyes, all thought gone as his spine arched. Hot, sticky liquid spurted through their fingers as his cock jerked, alive and ruddy and tacky with pre-come. Michael moved fast, slipped James’ hands loose and grasped the base of James’ cock with his own fingers, preventing him from coming. James’ Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly as his mouth opened on a despairing wail, liquid and dark with _want_. He bucked again, hips twisting, and the weight of his tightened balls dragged against Michael’s, forcing his own instinctive grind and twist.

Breath catching in his throat, Michael stilled himself, staring down at James’ gorgeously writhing body. The fabric of James’ shirt clung wetly to his shoulders and arms, his flush the darker and more abandoned for the contrast with rucked-up and wrinkled white cotton. Sweat ran freely down Michael’s own spine, his t-shirt sticking to his skin, and he wished he could stay in this moment forever, listening to James’ moan dragging up from deep in his chest, inarticulate with yearning and driving arousal straight through Michael’s nerves, his very skin lighting up as James’ voice wrapped around him in a sheen of fiery need. Michael could never get enough of this, of James letting himself be seen like this, vulnerable and sensual and given over to pleasure. Pleasure that _Michael_ gave him.

Michael’s cock beat against the side of his fist, and he drew in a deep breath. Leaning down until he could feel the hot rush of James’ shallow exhalations, he brushed the tip of his nose across a damp cheek, and whispered, low and slow enough for James to hear, to pay attention: “Hands at your sides.” He waited, gasping with the effort of not coming himself. Not yet, not before he took care of James.

James moaned long and liquid, slumping completely flat as if his bones had dissolved, arms slipping down obediently. Michael might never get used to the _depth_ of James’ submission, all thought subsumed into feeling, into that stillness where James was a creature of pure desire, bound by nothing more than Michael’s voice, his touch, his _command_.

In Michael’s hand, James’ thick and jerking cock pulsed under his fingers, wet and hard and dripping even with him holding tight; Michael clenched and unclenched his fingers rhythmically, watching James while sweat trickled down his own face, and he waited until James shifted his hips, eyes drunk and black with desire as they focused on Michael’s lips closing around the tip of his cock.

It didn’t take much. James was more than ready, fists clenching into the bedcovers while his tongue swiped again and again at his parted lips, glistening blood-red. His breath came in little sobs, and Michael felt a wave of triumph spill in his chest, rising hot and wild to shine through his own eyes, to have brought James to this point, and he – oh so carefully – closed his incisors over the insanely sensitive tissue just past the head of James’ cock – turned his head to let the sharp edges brush across the delicate foreskin, not even daring to blink while James’ face blanched and flushed and his already huge eyes grew vast.

 _“Mich--”_ James’ whole body shook, and his cock _jumped_. His mouth gaped open on a groan, face wet with sweat and tears. _“Please--”_

Michael, lips wrapped tight and teeth carefully held, sucked as hard as he could, made James wait for it, swirled his tongue into the brimming slit and licked hard, then pressed his tongue against the flesh indented by his teeth and tilted his head, drawing his upper incisors deliberately up until they scraped across the rim of James’ cockhead.

James _screamed_. The tendons in his throat corded, and Michael could see the white-knuckled grip on the quilt and _feel_ his muscles straining, the quivering clench of James’ pelvis as he tried, tried desperately _not_ to come, not until Michael scrambled to push their cocks together and shout, half-blind with the force of his own oncoming orgasm:

“Now, James, now, come for me now!”

Michael barely heard James’ cries, that slighter body suddenly pounding up into his, hips colliding and hands wetly grasping. When he could take anything in again, Michael pushed himself halfway off from where he’d collapsed onto James, letting the ribs below his expand and contract with each ragged breath, a little faster than his own huffs into the skin of James' clavicle. Smiling, Michael tapped his tongue lightly against the beautiful line of bone, tasting salt and the underlying notes of cream and cinnamon skin. After a moment, he felt his hand grasped, and then James’ warm tongue began lapping at his come-wet palm. Turning his head so that his chin rested where his tongue had just been, Michael's heart swelled to see exhausted, beaming contentment glowing up from wet eyes. And to hear that lovely Scottish pronunciation of his name, murmured over and over.

They were both all over with come, sticky and messy and utterly entrancing, with spatters decorating James’ shirt from hem to collar – and Michael leaned in and licked, eyes closing with the bittersweet taste – at a spot or two accenting James’ chin and jaw. Michael pressed his lips to James’, licked inside and shared the flavor with him, until James’ eyes grew heavy and his eyelashes fluttered, slower and slower.

James snuggled into Michael’s arms as quickly and inexorably as a cat claims a lap. His voice fell like frayed ribbon into the throbbing silence, hushed and fading. “Thank you, darling.” He nosed into Michael’s stubbled throat; that need to touch, again, Michael thought, everywhere; and he wanted James to know that he wanted all those touches too, that he'd never imagined his skin could crave the sensation of someone else's quite so badly, that he knew he was still learning how and when to kiss or cuddle or hold James in public but he was trying, he'd never stop trying, he'd be here every time James needed to be kissed or cuddled or held.

He nuzzled the top of James’s head. “Thank _you_ ,” he whispered. He took a breath, closed his eyes for an instant, all of his heart gathered up for courage, so he could say, so he could ask--

Soft, chapped lips brushed along his jaw, breathed into his skin, “Love you. Always.” James nestled close, arms coming around Michael, a slow and sleepy embrace. “Should clean up,” he mumbled, nearly gone.

Michael’s breath blew out. He suppressed a whimper as his blood rose up in marches, his heart singing paeans, even as James’ breathing slowed and his limbs relaxed into slumber. Breathing hard, Michael smelled James’ hair, the apple shampoo he favored, the sweat of a long day, the earthier and more delicious scent of James himself, indefinable and unmistakable and utterly, utterly desirable. Once his eyes stopped wanting to grow wet, he kissed the delicate skin under an elfin ear, damply covered by chestnut locks begging to be coiled around long fingers.

Clean-up could wait. The whole world could wait. He pressed another kiss into the drying skin of James’ forehead. “I love you,” he breathed, “always. _Forever_.” James’ lips curved minutely, though his eyes remained shut, his breaths evening out – unaware, most likely, of what he’d said, what he’d revealed. But even if the words hadn’t been said before, Michael knew. Had known.

He thought, briefly, of the tiny box waiting in his travel bag.

Pushing an arm under James’ head for a pillow, he clasped the other around his waist, then flung one leg over James’, enclosing him as fully as he could, unwilling to relinquish even an inch of space between them. And when James’ breathing slowed and his limbs relaxed into slumber, Michael held him closer still.

As he intended to do for the rest of their lives.


End file.
